


Better In Your Arms

by SOMNlARl



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Caretaking, Cillian isn't well, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dorian is a sweetheart, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, You will not find magical healing cock here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3821353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOMNlARl/pseuds/SOMNlARl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a mission to the Fallow Mire Cillian Trevelyan returns to Skyhold sick, miserable and more than a little bit grumpy. Dorian is a sweetheart and a surprisingly patient caretaker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better In Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sick and feel like shit right now so i had to start it out with a little sickfic. sorry if you hate that trope, someone has to suffer with me. sorry, cillian - i still love you bb. 
> 
> comments make me feel like i'm not a shit writer. 
> 
> tumblr: xhermionedanger
> 
> Here's my [Cillian tag](http://xhermionedanger.tumblr.com/tagged/cillian-trevelyan) on tumblr if you're curious about him at all. Includes screenshots and headcanons.

It had been three weeks since they first arrived in the Fallow Mire and Cillian Trevelyan was sick of it. The rain, the muck, the plague-fires, corpses everywhere. And the Avvar, of course. _Andraste’s tits_! Horrid Avvar, dragging him all the way out to that Maker-accursed bog, away from Skyhold and fairer climes. Why that bog hadn’t already been burned to the ground was beyond him. 

The party rode back out the instant the Avvar leader was defeated and the Inquisition’s soldiers rescued, no one wanting to spend another minute in that blighted swamp despite being exhausted, camping in the muck hardly allowed for sleep. 

He just wants a bed. And a bath. And brandy. Possibly not in that order, now that he thinks about it; just the bed. The bath and brandy can wait until he's not a shivering pile of exhaustion, nagging aches settled deep into his bones and the curious heaviness that's come to rest between his ribs. And not just any bed - not one in any of the many inns they’ve rode past but his own - with the pillows crumpled just the way he likes them and the mercifully cool sheets on his skin. 

He sighs as they finally scale the last ridge of the Frostbacks and Skyhold comes into view. _Home_. The long breath out coupled with the cold mountain air teases out a cough which he tries to hold back. It tears at the back of his throat, like daggers ripping into flesh. He groans as he rubs at his bleary eyes with his fists, swaying a bit in the saddle as he drops the reigns, trusting his horse to continue on without his guidance for a moment. 

“Cillian? Amatus? Are you alright?” He doesn’t hear Dorian spur his mount forward but suddenly they’re riding side by side, the hoofbeats of Dorian’s chestnut in sync with his hart’s. 

Cillian looks over at the mage, glassy-eyed, unable to entirely focus on his face through the heat rising from him which he can’t quite explain. They’re in the Frostbacks. It’s freezing. He shouldn’t be this unbearably hot. 

He blinks a few times, slowly. “I...feel a bit odd, actually…” he says softly then trails off, not quite able to catch his breath, fingers rising to wipe away the glistening beads of sweat dotting his brow. "I think I might be..." he stops short, moving a hand to rub at the base of his neck.

“Shhh, save your breath. We’re almost to Skyhold,” Dorian replies, a hint of worry he can’t smooth out in his words. He's thought that the man hasn’t seemed well for days - slower, more tired than usual, his usual pallor flushed, breath starting to rattle in his lungs - but Cillian's brushed off all concern until now, insisting that they needed to focus on the mission. For the man to not only admit to basic human weaknesses but nearly to illness he must feel absolutely dreadful. He reaches over and lays the back of a hand across Cillian’s forehead, cringing at the unnatural, worrying warmth radiating from him and the way the man melts into his touch, slumping forward on his mount. 

“Oh fuck... that feels so good.” he whispers then makes a small noise of frustration as Dorian pulls his hand away, whining as the source of his momentary relief is taken away. 

“Cillian!" Dorian hisses, clapping a hand to his upper back to steady him. " _Venhedis_ , sit up! Falling off your horse and spitting your skull open would hardly be a fitting end for our famed Inquisitor.” Dorian reigns his mount back into formation and Cillian sighs again, shaking his head slowly in a vain attempt to clear the fog from it as he focuses on the rising walls of Skyhold on the horizon. 

***

They ride through the gates to the sound of blaring horns and swords crashing in the courtyard, the sun beginning its slow descent over the mountains. 

Bull and Sera race off towards the tavern the moment their feet touch the ground. Cillian slides clumsily off his horse, nearly falling as one foot tangles in the stirrup and he can't quite seem to free it. Dorian jumps off his own mount, handing the reigns off to a waiting stable boy. Walking briskly he reaches the blond, catching his elbow before he can stumble and fall face-first to the ground. 

“Come on, to bed with you,” Dorian says as casually as he can muster as he begins walking them towards the stairs to the Great Hall. He primes himself to respond to an argument from his usually stubborn lover who would normally be off to visit with all of his inner circle and companions left behind. None is forthcoming except a rather annoyed-sounding _hmph_ and it worries him more than he would care to admit. This silent, resigned acceptance and obedience is not normal. 

Josephine approaches with a wide smile and a stack of papers which she tries to press into Cillian’s hands but Dorian waves her off, swatting at the reports. 

“You may have those delivered to his quarters for later. I shouldn’t, however, expect an immediate response. Do tell the Commander and Leliana the same thing, hmmm?” 

“I'm right here, Dorian! I can make my own blasted decisions!” Cillian argues grumpily, wincing as his raw, roughened voice rips at the back of his throat. “I think I am perfectly capable of deciding whether or not I wish to be handed things.” He breaks off in another harsh cough which grows into a fit he can’t stifle and doubles him over, swearing breathlessly at the end. “And I don’t wish to be handed things, in case you were wondering.”

The ambassador’s eyes flit across the Inquisitor's face and she softens, making a soft little noise of concern in the back of her throat as she nods. 

“Will you need anything, Lord Dorian?” 

He shakes his head quickly then reconsiders. “Perhaps a runner close by? In case I need to summon Madame de Fer.” He shrugs elegantly. He and Vivienne spend so much time bickering, he imagines most of the other denizens of Skyhold don’t hear the friendship underneath. “She is most excellent with potions, it is a skill that always has eluded me. Too busy with time magic, you know.” Dorian chances a small smile which the Antivan returns; finally they have come to this easy peace where he can joke about such things. 

“Of course,” Josephine rushes off in a haze of rustling silks and satins, gold flashing in the late afternoon sunlight as she departs. 

“Dorian...you can't just commandeer a runner and take them away from their duties!” Cillian rasps with a deep shiver as they cross the Great Hall, avoiding the small groups of visiting nobles. “I’m not going to need anything. I just want to go to sleep. I'll be fine.” 

“Hush,” he tsks, carding a hand through the man’s hair as he pushes the door to the Inquisitor's quarters open. “It’s good to be prepared, yes? And it’s hardly a burden, Skyhold’s runners rarely have enough to do. This at least might keep one from gossiping and cards.”

The man nods reluctantly, leaning heavily against Dorian’s side as they climb the stairs. 

Once up the stairs Cillian abandons all pretense. Exhausted, he stumbles haphazardly into bed, rolls onto one side - legs hanging off the edge of the mattress - and tucks his face into a pillow. Dorian rolls his eyes affectionately and crosses the room, kneeling beside the bed as his fingers work at the laces of the man’s boots, pulling them off one by one. 

“I’m not a child!” Cillian retorts heavily, voice thick with congestion. He raises halfway up on one elbow then falls back as he starts to cough again. It's so raw and painful sounding that Dorian winces, rubbing soft circles against the man's upper back sympathetically. When the fit finally eases and he can catch his breath he tries again. “I can manage to take off my own boots if I want to... without your help.” 

“Of course you can,” Dorian says soothingly, exactly as he might to the small, overtired child the blond sounds but has insisted he isn't. He pushes back a few limp, sweat-soaked strands of hair from the man’s forehead. “But you don’t have to.” He primes a spell in his hand, magic leaping between his fingertips, and lays an ice mote across the sheets under Cillian who immediately relaxes back onto it with a relieved sob. 

Dorian gets up and crosses over to the desk, boots clicking against the floorboards. He sniffs disdainfully at the jug of water standing on it, stale and tepid. “Well, that will hardly do,” he mutters under his breath as he floods frost magic into the liquid, clarifying it then adding a frost charm. He pours a glass full then dips his handkerchief in the ewer before walking back to sit on the edge of the bed. He presses the glass into the man’s waiting hand, fingernails scratching lightly at Cillian’s temples with the other hand. 

Cillian drinks deeply, sighing at the end as he curls into Dorian, resting his head on the mage’s thigh. He sighs as Dorian's fingers trail through his hair, tangling through unruly blond strands curling at the back of his neck. He frowns as a shiver overtakes him before breaking into another bout of wracking coughs. “I feel like shit,” he moans softly, clenching his eyes shut against the light. 

Dorian can feel his heart _melt_ and leans over to press a soft kiss into the man’s hairline as he takes the glass, setting it back on the side table. “Oh, Amatus... But that is what you risk when you insist on tramping through a plague-ridden bog. You do know that you don't need to rescue everyone yourself, yes? Next time let the Commander send a complement of soldiers to trudge through the muck and weather sickness after.” He clucks disapprovingly as he presses the still cool cloth against the man’s forehead with one hand. 

It feels so wonderful that Cillian could almost cry; he doesn’t but it’s a very close call. He mumbles what might be a _thank you_ and _I’m sorry_ or possibly just small, miserable whimpers into Dorian’s leg, clinging to him with all the desperation of a child holding onto a soft toy after a nightmare. 

“You really should get changed out of your armor and have a bath before you sleep. You'd feel much better, I think,” Dorian starts as he looks down at the man with a shudder and notices how lank and dirty his usually immaculate hair had become. He reaches down to undo the buckles of Cillian’s leather cuirass but stops again as the blond shakes his head, grinds out a hoarse "no," and turns away, stifling a sudden fit of harsh sneezes into the mattress. Dorian sighs, knowing there was no convincing him now; this was apparently where the man was going to exercise all of his stubbornness. “Alright, just for tonight then?” He pulls the stack of blankets up high and tight over the man's shoulders.

Cillian nods, burrowing deeper into his nest of blankets.

Dorian stokes the fire as best as he’s able and closes the balcony doors, pausing to remove his boots and armor piece by piece. He leaves them lying on the floor, his usual meticulousness overwhelmed by the growing need inside him to return to Cillian, and crawls into bed behind his lover who has mercifully dozed off and is snoring softly. 

Cillian wakes with a start at the soft dip of the mattress next to him, turns towards him and tries ineffectually to push him away with a palm on the mage's forehead, glaring blearily through fever-bright eyes at him. “Dorian, no… I’ll get you sick,” he coughs again, burying his face into the pillow to muffle the sound. 

Dorian chuckles as he cups a hand around the man’s jaw, rolling him over as he pulls Cillian’s face up towards his. He smiles as he presses a quick kiss to Cillian’s lips. “Amatus, you have already dragged me through a filthy, disease-ridden swamp. My fate, as you say in the South, is sealed. You will simply have to return the favor when I am on my deathbed, yes?” 

“I can do that.” Cillian laughs breathlessly, clearly a mistake as his lungs seize again, teasing out yet another cough. He throws a hand up to cover his mouth and stifle the sound, curling farther into himself to avoid coughing on Dorian. He’s only partly successful and he can feel himself flushing an even brighter pink which has nothing to do with the fever and everything to do with embarrassment. 

“I hate this,” he whimpers, relaxing as Dorian wraps an arm around his chest and eases him closer, long, nimble fingers threading purposefully through his hair and soft lips ghosting across his temples. "So much."

“I know, Amatus. I don’t think _anyone_ likes being sick,” Dorian whispers and Cillian pulls away from the touch, the other mage’s breath painfully warm against his fevered skin. Dorian’s clear grey eyes flash with sudden understanding and he summons a thread of mana to cool his palm, placing it back across the man’s brow. 

“I’m never, ever going back to the Fallow Mire again. Ever. I don’t care what anyone says. Grey Warden relics be damned, they can rot there as far as I’m concerned,” Cillian whispers carefully in an attempt to spare his painfully inflamed throat. 

“You’ll get no argument from me! Maker knows trekking about in the middle of nowhere searching out abandoned camps is hardly my cup of tea. While you're in the mood to stay away from dreadful places could you issue a similar moratorium on trips out to the Storm Coast and perhaps to Crestwood? All the damp, you know. Bad for my wardrobe.” Dorian's face falls. "I'm already going to have to burn my boots after our latest expedition. Poor things - they were snofleur, so warm and soft - pity they ended up marinating in the undead.

"I'll get you a new pair. I'm sure I'll owe you for this," Cillian whispers and huffs a sleepy laugh into the mage’s chest, eyelids fluttering as he fights to keep from closing them and drifting into the Fade. He just wants to stay here with Dorian, cuddled against him, feel his fingers trail through his hair and down his neck. He yawns, rapidly losing the battle against sleep and closes his eyes. 

“Go to sleep, Amatus,” Dorian commands. "You'll feel better in the morning."

There would be all the time in the world for them to make decisions tomorrow, Dorian thinks as he looks down at Cillian with a small smile. For now there was just the sleepy sigh of his lover as he snuggles closer into him, the occasional cough and soft half-snores as he drifts off to sleep. Dorian pulls him closer; this may not have been the homecoming either of them had hoped for but as he lies still with the man pressed against him he thinks perhaps it wasn't a horrible one all the same.


End file.
